Red Fever

Chapter 1 Resilience on Ice

RESILIENCE ON ICE

Sometimes, in the middle of the second period, you take a puck straight to the face and realize, in the split second before your vision goes red, that the only thing you’re really good at is getting up again.

It starts the way these things always do, I’m at the crease, battling for scraps with a guy who could pass for an actual refrigerator, elbows up, stick between my legs, both of us too desperate or too stupid to let the play go dead.

We’re down two and there are fifteen games to go so all the bullshit about “playing for love of the game” is long gone, this is personal, this is about not being the fuck-up who gets cut again in May.

I catch the slapshot, see it, if I’m honest, a split-second before it happens, but instinct makes me turn my head, which means the puck doesn’t shatter my teeth, just rips a new line across my cheekbone, right above the shield.

It’s the sweet spot, too low for the helmet, too high for the mouthguard. Smart. Textbook.

There’s a noise, a little pop, and for half a second nothing registers except the sound of my own blood hitting the ice like someone’s dropped a handful of loose change.

Then the pain catches up and my entire head is nothing but white, white noise, white light, white-hot and expanding behind my eyes until I can’t see anything but my own hands grabbing at the boards.

I hear the whistle.

I hear the crowd, not a roar, not here, not this barn with its two-dollar beers and Tuesday night energy, but a kind of groan, like even the fans can’t believe how much the Steelhawks fucking suck.

And through it all, I hear the voice in my head that’s been there since I was fifteen, get up, Ash. Always get up.

So I do.

I get my feet under me before the trainers can even clear the bench.

There’s blood in my mouth, a metallic tang that’s so strong it drowns out the taste of bile.

My tongue is already thick, my head is ringing, but I skate to the bench on my own like I’m fine, like I haven’t just contributed the most exciting play of my career with my face.

Coach is there, all bug-eyed and purple, yelling about keeping your head on a swivel. But he’s got the good sense not to yank me.

They need warm bodies. And I’m nothing if not reliably warm.

The ref gives me a look like I’m a feral animal, but I nod once and plant my ass at the end of the bench.

The team doc fusses with a towel, tells me to “apply direct pressure” which I do, even though it stings like hell.

I watch the replay on the jumbotron, slow motion, high-def, the moment when I become someone else’s GIF for the week.

The crowd is too thin for a proper cheer, but there’s a rowdy guy up near the glass who thumps the boards in appreciation.

I want to flick him off, but it would just make my mom sad.

We lose the puck in the neutral zone.

I’m up on the next line change, because what, you thought I was going to sit out with a scratch?, and I jump the boards, stick ready, and skate into position with my head pounding like a bastard.

All I can see is the ice and the streaks of red I’m leaving behind. The cut is already closing up, but it’s ugly.

I take my shift.

I play like I always do, hard, a little reckless, never pretty. I get a stick on a rebound and flick it to O’Doul, who at least has the hands to bury it.

Assist number twelve for the season, not that anyone’s counting.

The rest of the game is a blur.

The sweat stings, the blood clots and dries against my jaw, the ringing in my ears is constant.

I block a shot with my shin, I get dumped on my ass behind the net, I finish every hit just a little late because there’s nothing more annoying than a guy who won’t go away.

We drop two more goals in the third and the score is 4-2 when the clock dies.

There’s no handshake line, not for regular games, just a scattered exodus to the room.

Nobody’s talking.

Coach doesn’t bother with the postmortem, just glares and points us to the tunnel. I skate off last, head down.

The arena is already half-empty, the diehards and drunks shuffling out for last call.

In the hallway, I hear a stick tap, once, twice, from somewhere behind me.

I look back and it’s Ryan Holt, our captain, blood on his knuckles, grinning like a wolf.

“Nice chin, Rosen,” he says.

“Better save,” I shoot back, and he laughs, which hurts more than anything.

Nobody in the world likes me, but they respect the hell out of a guy who takes a shot and doesn’t stay down.

I live for it. I hate it. I want more.

In the dressing room, my hands are shaking as I undo the helmet, peel back the jersey, wipe off the new blood from the old scars.

I press my tongue to the inside of my cheek and taste the iron and sweat and just a little bit of glory.

I made the play. I made a difference. It’ll never be enough.

But it’s all I know how to do.

———

The locker room is always cold.

Not the bone-deep freeze of the rink, but the institutional chill that lingers in cinderblock and tile, a kind of engineered misery designed to keep everyone on edge and moving.

There’s a weird comfort in it, the way the sweat cools to a prickling itch, the way the steam from the showers turns your breath into a little private cloud.

I always liked it more after a loss, the silence thicker, the fuck-you energy bouncing off the walls like a live puck.

Victories are for teams with something to prove. We have nothing to prove. We’re just here because it’s the only place that’ll take us.

I’m working the laces out of my left skate, teeth clamped around a bit of athletic tape that tastes like chemical lemons and plastic, when I realize the stall next to mine is empty.

Not just “guy’s in the shower” empty, but stripped-out, every item vanished, like a chalk outline after the body’s been hauled away.

The sign above says “D. WEBB” in black sharpie, slightly off-kilter, the way the trainers write it when they’re not quite sober.

I never saw Darius as the type to bounce without saying shit.

He’s the only guy on the squad who can finish a full sentence, the only one who doesn’t act like my existence is an affront to the game.

I glance around, keep it casual.

O’Doul is face down on the training table, nursing a knee, trainers dabbing at the swelling with bags of ice.

Cap’s already in the shower, singing “Yellow Ledbetter” off-key in a voice that sounds like a motorcycle accident.

The new kid, Raz, is hunched over his phone, thumb flying, probably sexting his girlfriend or calling his bookie or both.

“Heard D called in with ‘personal fucking stuff,’” Raz says, like he knows I’m looking.

He doesn’t look up from his phone, but he smirks, like this is the juiciest thing that’s happened all season.

I grunt, keep pulling at my laces. “Hope he gets the gold star for mental health awareness.”

Nobody laughs. That’s fine. I don’t tell jokes for the response; I do it because the silence otherwise swells until it crushes my lungs.

The blood on my face is mostly dry now, crusted up from eyebrow to chin, brown and ugly.

I peel off the pads, piece by piece, and try not to think about how much they stink.

If you ever want to know true humiliation, get a nose full of your own post-game gear. You could bottle this shit and sell it as birth control.

The rest of the guys file out, either heading for the parking lot or the bar across the street.

I lag behind, partly because I don’t want to get home, partly because I’m not in the mood to talk about the loss with anyone who’d care.

Nobody’s waiting for me, not like back home, not like Tacoma.

The only thing in my fridge is expired yogurt and a single Bud Light, and I don’t even like Bud Light.

But the thought of sitting in my apartment, hearing the hum of the mini-fridge and the silence, is worse.

I clean up the cut at the sink, staring at my own reflection in the warped metal.

For a second I look like a stranger, some mutant version of myself cobbled together from old headshots and injury reports.

The scar on my chin is newish, maybe six months old. This one above the eye is deeper. A keepsake.

One assist tonight, and that only because O’Doul can’t take a pass to save his life and the puck rebounded off his shin.

Plus/minus still in the shitter. I can hear the coach’s voice already, monotone but lethal, telling me I “need to find another gear.” Like I’m hiding one under the hood, just waiting for the right moment to not suck.

The truth is, I’m not a “find another gear” guy.

I’m not even a “gear” guy. I’m the one who keeps the goddamn machine running when everyone else flakes out, because I don’t know how to quit.

I sit back down and stare at the lockers for a while, running the numbers in my head, fifteen games left, two points out of the playoffs, contract review in May.

If I bomb, I go back to Tacoma.

Dad will say “at least you gave it a real shot,” and Mom will hug me so hard my ribs hurt, and Maya, she’s a sophomore at UW now, studying psychology so she can fix people like me for a living, will ask if I want to see a therapist.

I do, actually. I just don’t want anyone to know how badly.

For some reason, I start thinking about ninth grade.

JV locker room, the walls painted yellow like that would make it less of a dungeon.

I remember changing after practice, seeing Jake Halpern in the mirror, shirtless, just… beautiful, like no one else in that whole fucking city. It hit me hard, the way you don’t have words for at that age.

I stared so long I thought he’d call me out, but he never even noticed. Nobody did. Not even me, not for real, not until much later.

I learned to stop looking. I learned to make jokes about everyone else, so nobody would make jokes about me.

I snap out of it, shake the memory off like sweat. It’s dumb. It’s old. I’m over it.

I towel off, put my street clothes on, and fish the car keys out of my duffel. There’s dried blood under my nails, a streak on my t-shirt.

I look like I lost a bar fight. I look exactly how I feel.

The parking lot is empty except for a couple guys smoking weed in a dented Subaru, windows down, EDM leaking into the night.

I walk past them and they barely look up. I get into my own car, a Civic so ancient it still has a tape deck, and sit there for a minute, staring at my hands on the wheel.

I wonder if Darius is okay. “Personal fucking stuff,” Raz said.

Maybe it’s family, maybe it’s something worse.

I should text, but what would I even say? We’re not close. Just teammates. He’s a goalie, I’m a winger. We don’t talk unless it’s shit-talking.

Still, I type out, “You alive?” and delete it before sending.

I drive home in silence, just the sound of my own breathing and the occasional rattle from the glovebox when I hit a pothole.

I can’t remember the last time I drove with music on. It always makes me think too much.

By the time I get to my place, the adrenaline has worn off and the pain in my face is a steady drumbeat.

I wonder if the cut will scar, if the blood will come out of my pillowcase, if anyone will notice tomorrow. I already know the answer.

I always get up. I never ask why I bother.

Maybe tomorrow will be different, but I know myself too well to buy that line.

———

My apartment is barely bigger than the locker I just left, a fourth-floor walkup with a view of the alley behind a closed vegan bakery and the dumpster where the feral cats have made their stronghold.

Capitol Hill rents will eat your soul, but it’s all I can afford until someone in this league decides I’m worth more than a twelve-month contract and fifty thousand in “performance incentives” that I will never, ever see.

I dump my gear bag at the door, right where the cleaning lady my mom keeps threatening to pay for would trip over it.

The place smells like detergent and old coffee, which is better than the alternative, so I’ll take it.

I shed my jacket and shoes and go straight to the freezer for the blue gel ice pack, the one with the cartoon penguin on the cover, a gag gift from Maya that I now rely on more than my own sense of humor.

I press the ice to my face, right above the cheekbone where the cut is throbbing, and wince so hard my vision flashes white.

It doesn’t hurt as much as I want it to.

I keep the pressure on, lean against the counter, and listen to the refrigerator hum. It’s the loudest thing in the apartment, like the building’s shitty little heartbeat.

I check my phone, just out of habit.

One text from my mom, “Saw the game, hope you’re okay. Love you.” Three group chats about tomorrow’s practice, which nobody reads.

A push notification for a news alert about the Mariners signing a pitcher who will inevitably bomb by June.

I open Tinder, scroll through the blur of faces, none of them sticking.

I’m not even horny, not really, just bored. I close it.

Open Grindr, look at the grid of torsos and blank profiles, and close it even faster. I’m not ready for that, not here, not in this city, not with this fucking face.

Besides, I know what I’d find, a bunch of guys who think “athlete” means “closeted” and want to break you open for the thrill.

I’m not a thrill. I’m a habit.

I collapse onto the couch, ice pack still pressed to my cheek.

My body aches in all the usual ways, but tonight it feels deeper, like the pain is soaking into my bones.

I close my eyes and let the darkness roll over me, pretend for a second that it’s all part of some plan.

I think about calling my dad, but I can’t imagine what I’d say. “Hey, pops, still sucking at hockey, but at least my orbital bone’s intact.” He’d probably laugh, then tell me a story about some kid from his history class who got caught cheating and how it’s “always about more than just the test.”

He’s right, but I don’t want to hear it tonight.

The TV is too far for me to reach the remote, so I just stare at the blank screen and my own reflection in the glass.

I look tired. Not just “played a game” tired, but soul tired. Like I’ve been running the same drill for years and still can’t make the cut.

Eventually, I drag myself to the bathroom.

The light in here is brutal, fluorescent and unflattering. I strip off my shirt, look at the angry red line across my face.

There’s already a bloom of purple under my eye. It’ll be black by morning, like someone stenciled a map of failure across my skull.

I look myself dead in the eyes.

I see the kid from Tacoma, the one who tried so fucking hard to be normal, to fit, to never give anyone a reason to look twice.

I see the man I am now, too stubborn to stay down, too scared to let anyone see the parts of me that aren’t hockey.

“I always get back up,” I whisper, testing the words. They sound hollow, but they’re true.

I smile, just a little. It hurts. But I like it. It’s a reminder.

That’s all I know how to do.